by P D Dennison
He planned to skirt the edge of the forest, back some ways from the water’s edge, quickly and quietly, but Sleipner would have none of it. The young ram sensed the presence of a predator. He would not pass in the open anywhere near the shore of the lake for any reward Ravak offered so he was forced to walk into the uncut trees and forge a new path so he could keep Sleipner calm and quiet. He thought it best not to do anything to draw the attention of the beast that lay beneath the calm dark waters if at all possible.
The short hike around the lake was turning into a trying one as the trees were young and plentiful, but Sleipner simply would not walk any closer to the shoreline. They had to trudge through the saplings, breaking and snapping them as they went. While it was quite likely for the best they stayed as far from the edge of the lake as possible, Ravak still would have preferred to quietly walk along the forest’s edge to get around the lake, rather than making such a commotion. If he’d had an alternate route, he would have taken it, but the mouth of the High Pass up into the Mystpeaks was directly around the other side and the thick brush made it nearly impossible to go any other way. The only route was along the shore, through the young growth.
As they approached the curve around the other side of the lake, Ravak stopped briefly to take a sip of water from his flask and get his bearings. They were about fifty yards from the beginning of a small clearing that opened up around the inlet near the far side if the lake and continued on into the pass. They would have to approach the shore now to continue on their journey up into the Mystpeaks as the woods around it thickened. Ravak was afraid, but he was more curious of what lay ahead than he was scared of anything in that stale old lake. His biggest challenge would be keeping Sleipner from running off as they approached the water. He moved slowly and steadily on, speaking to Sleipner in soothing tones as they moved out of the undergrowth.
They walked on very quietly and cautiously for several minutes without stopping and then Ravak thought he caught something out of the corner of his eye out on the water. He stopped dead and turned his head quickly. The water rippled slightly from whatever had surfaced, but it could have been anything. It could have been a bird, a fish, or even a beaver or muskrat. All the hairs on his neck stood up and he felt himself beginning to breathe hard as he examined the surface for any signs of what had made the ripples. Sleipner scratched the ground behind him, head down and breathing hard too.
The birds in the forest beside them had gone quiet. Not a good sign. He swallowed hard, trying to breathe slowly and deeply as he wrapped Sleipner’s lash around the trunk of a nearby sapling. He quietly drew his spear, thrusting it into the ground before him so it would be easy to reach. He removed the long recurve from his back. Ravak sensed he was being watched and would not give the Fiend any quarter should it show itself to him. He loosely nocked an arrow and waited.
He thought to himself how he had hoped if they travelled quietly and quickly without directly disturbing the water they might slip by the beast unnoticed, but he didn’t even know what the foe was that hunted them. His father, his tribe, had taught him the best way to protect yourself when you are prey is to become the predator. Take the initiative and turn the table on your foe. Find him before he finds you and surprise him with a quick and violent attack to ensure he is caught off guard.
Ravak’s ears pricked up as he heard birds take flight from the trees directly behind and above him. He wheeled around and drew back the string of the great bow in one fluid motion, but saw nothing. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, breathing in deeply again. Time stood still for that split second, his pounding heart the only link to real time and space he had left. He was terrified. His eyes snapped back open as he realized what he’d done. He drew the bowstring again and wheeled back toward the lake. To his horror the beast was already silently rising out of the deep with great speed and stealth. It rose from the water as large as a bear. The sun fell into shadow and Ravak caught sight of its large pallid purple eyes, all dead and hollow. It stared fixedly at him. As the water slid down the rotted looking scales of the beast’s hide, Ravak knew that what he faced was no man.
The Deep Fiend already rose before him, a full seven feet tall from the surface of the water and he’d not seen it from the waist down yet. Its muscled and scaled arms of grey, green, and black striped flesh hung rotted and dead from its bones. At the end of each arm, a massive webbed hand threatened death from its set of jet black claws long enough to peel a man’s flesh off the bone in one swipe. It moved quickly and agilely toward him up onto the shore.
Ravak took a deep breath before the water of the lake splashed out at him as it rolled off the body of the creature rising now to a full thirteen feet and towering a mere three steps from where Ravak stood. He aimed up at the heart of the Fiend and let his arrow fly. In the same practised motion of a well-trained Winter Wolf warrior, he dropped the bow and reached out for his spear. He moved blindingly fast, but the Fiend was faster. It grabbed the spear before Ravak had a chance to take full hold of it. It all happened so fast that the creature barely noticed the arrow passing though its chest and out the other side. As it grasped at its now gushing wound, Ravak rolled to one side and reached for his axes. He came out of the roll back up onto his feet in one motion and roared loudly as he flung the right axe, first landing a glancing blow to the creature’s left eye and then loosed the left axe. The Fiend was ready for the second attack and dodged away. For the size of the beast, it moved with unfathomable speed and the noise it made terrified the poor young Barbarian.
Sleipner frantically pulled and kicked at the tree and his tether, trying to break free all the while squealing out a sound that Ravak had not known a ram even capable of.
The Deep Fiend threw the spear aside and lunged for his prey. Ravak anticipated the attack and rolled away again, the scales of the beast grazing his skin. His luck was running out. He had to kill this thing now or be killed. He snatched his knife and noted the position of the spear on the ground to the right of the Fiend. The knife whirled toward the creature’s right arm and Ravak dove for the spear. The Deep Fiend cried out in its sickening gurgling, slurping language as the blade found its mark and sunk deeply into the flesh with a sucking chink sound as it penetrated the scaly, rotting hide and found bone beneath. The Fiend reeled back in anguish from the strike and grabbed its arm. The blade was lodged deep within the flesh just above the elbow.
Ravak had the advantage. Quickly he swung his spear as if to pierce the creature’s head, and the beast’s arms came up. He thrust the first strike between the ribs into the right lung, and its arms dropped. Ravak jerked the spear out to immediately strike its right leg. The Fiend collapsed to its knees, and he struck the third and finishing blow into its heart.
It was the killing blow his father had taught him and was taught to all the warriors of his clan. Quick, clean, and easy to execute, it confused the target and left little room for a retaliatory strike. The Deep Fiend gurgled loudly and blinked slowly. The ground rumbled with its low growl, but it remained wobbly on its knees. Its blood flowed thick and black down the spear of the young wild-eyed Barbarian. Ravak placed his foot on the hip of the creature and gave his spear a fierce twist as he pulled it back out with great force to ensure the heart bled out as he did so. The Deep Fiend collapsed in a heap.
Ravak gasped for air, half from terror and half from exhaustion of the battle he’d just fought. He fell to his knees in front of his vanquished foe. Breathing hard, he looked over at Sleipner to be sure his little friend was alright, but Sleipner was gone.
Ravak gathered his weapons and searched around once more for any sign of Sleipner. He saw a trail of broken branches leading away from the scene that headed up into the High Pass so at least the poor little fellow had run in the right direction.
Ravak turned again to take one last look at his bleeding foe. The Deep Fiend had stopped gurgling and growling now and its breathing grew shallow. But there was something strange. The wound on its chest had all but stopped
bleeding, and the gaping tear he’d left in the creature’s eye from the first strike with the axe looked as though it had healed over already. In fact, Ravak now noticed that the chest of the beast was not gushing forth blood as it should be, but instead the blood was already sticky looking, and appeared as if it was coagulating after only seconds had passed. He took a step closer and to his surprise, the Deep Fiend moved its good arm with a gurgling growl. Ravak stumbled back in fright as he was certain the last three strikes had killed the beast. Again the good arm moved to prop itself up. Now the injured right arm, too, pushed into the ground. The damn thing was actually getting up! Ravak was not about to stick around to find out what it was or why it was not dying from the mortal wounds he’d inflicted upon it. His own good sense told him now was the time to head for the pass. He turned, breaking into a mad dash along the path his ram had forged.
Chapter 4
Headed North for Hilltop
“Rostioff Fastelaine, Arch Mage of Elemental Sorcery to see His Grace the Arch Mage of the Tower, Danthalas Whiteash, as requested.” The wizard bowed deeply, confidently with both arms extended, and a leg forward, the custom in Castille for dignitaries of his standing. He swept his large foppish hat with a flourish in one hand with one knee bent in reverence for the office before which he stood.
The air grew thick with the scent of incense and a low, smoky haze hung about five feet off the floor. It carried with it the occasional acrid whiff that science and magick bring. A great fire crackled in the hearth of the antechamber. Above it hung a stone plaque with the High Tower’s coat of arms emblazoned onto it upon which the shadows danced as if to unheard melodies. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror above a side table and smoothed his beard and moustache.
Rostioff was a tall man, thin and rugged looking. Despite his rough outward appearance, something in his eye made him appear young for his forty-seven seasons. Many would not have put him a day past thirty and perhaps a little sun dried at worst. He kept his dark hair neatly combed back, in keeping with the ways of his elven master. He tied it in a couple of braids on the sides to hold the loose mane from his face and eyes while casting his furious magicks in service to the Tower. He wore a thin lined beard that came down around the sides of his jaw and under his chin. It rose up around his lip in a neatly trimmed and waxed moustache. His eyes appeared learned and wise yet when one drew close, they showed blue and deep like the southern ocean. They conveyed a sense of goodness and peace that only the eyes of a being of power and honour can convey.
Around his neck hung a talisman of great power. He kept it hidden beneath his over-cloak. Only he and his master Danthalas knew he possessed. Neither fully understood how to unlock its power. The talisman was a Dragon Orb from the First Age of the Land of Shaarn. One of the last of its kind, it could provide a crucial advantage to defeating, Graxxen and foiling the wicked creature’s plans. Rostioff wore a long robe of crimson red covered by a three-quarter length black tunic which was belted about the waist by a broad tan leather girdle trimmed in gold with many small pouches and artifices adorning it. In the pouches he carried his various spell components, all carefully loaded into small leather sachets for quick access when the time required it. The many tiny artifices appeared to be nothing more than junk to most, a lizard’s skull, the claw of an eagle. Who but a wizard would want for such as these?
Though they were covered by his robes, Rostioff wore tall brown riding boots that came up to his thigh and bore the weather on their toes like a deep wound. He had of late spent a great deal of time in the countryside mustering his pupils and assigning to them the various commissions his master had him arrange, all in defense of the Tower and the surrounding lands she stood for.
“His Excellency will see you now, Master Rostioff.” The clerk stood and bowed deeply as he spoke, gesturing with one arm toward the door of the study. Rostioff went forth immediately and swung both doors wide open with a sense of purpose.
“Master,” he spoke, bowing his head as he strode forward, dropping his satchel to one side near the door. “It is done, the commissions are set. Most importantly the commission to retrieve the last of the eggs is underway. Manya and her brother Turynn will seek them out and return them to Hilltop where I will collect them and have them Transportled back here, that we may steward them into birth and use them in our battle against Graxxen. My other pupils study the Annals of Dragon Husbandry that we may seek out the required components to cast the Awakening so we may birth the dragons.” Rostioff bowed deeply taking a knee before his master as he came to a stop with arms extended.
Danthalas Whiteash was an elven mage from the First Age some two thousand seasons old and no less wise than anyone would assume for one who had lived all of those lifetimes of men. He sat facing the large arched windows of the office looking out over the Orcun Ocean. He didn’t turn, nor stir when Rostioff entered. He was not one to disturb a train of thought or to do anything with any great sense of urgency. A life of two thousand seasons taught a man the great virtue of patience and the value of plans well laid. Unfortunately this plan had already begun to crumble because, much like himself, the evil Graxxen had lived in the First Age and was a grand orchestrator of schemes.
Danthalas was a slight man, as all elven males were when compared to the men of Castille, standing only four and a half feet tall with a very slender build. His hair, though his age was advanced, was still the same brilliant yellow hue it used to be in his first eon of life. His skin a brilliant alabaster white, shone brightly with the exuberance of youth and passion despite his seasons. His eyes, wide, were almond shaped with a violet hue, common enough among the elven folk. He donned the white flowing gown of the Arch Mage, a station he held in stewardship over the Tower of High Sorcery and all the people of Shaarn. He rose and took hold of a grand white staff that towered over his tiny form to a height of seven feet adorned at the tip with the head of a dragon with the Bronze Dragon Orb clutched in its outstretched fore claws.
He spoke to Rostioff without turning. “We have been out-manoeuvred, my young friend. Graxxen has hatched the first of the eggs using the very ritual we intended. I wouldn’t have believed the magic would even work in the hands of such a deplorable creature.”
Rostioff stood speechless in the face of this revelation. He’d spent many long days of riding to seek out the Tower Magi who’d been hand chosen for the various commissions required to stop the evil. All the weeks of planning to be outwitted by Graxxen when they had gotten so close to harnessing the power of the dragons.
Danthalas stood silent, thinking, weighing options in his mind. He was not the type to give up when they had gotten so close to victory. This would change the battlefield, but not the outcome. He would not accept defeat. It would mean the end of life as he knew it in the Land of Shaarn. Graxxen would surely destroy them with the dragons under his control.
Danthalas turned and walked slowly to his desk, motioning for Rostioff to take a seat in one of the large comfy high back chairs on the other side. He looked long into the face of his young apprentice, his brow furrowed. Then he picked up a bottle that sat to one side of his desk and pushed a cup toward Rostioff, pulling one to himself, and uncorked the bottle. He gave it a sniff, but his expression never changed as if he smelled nothing at all, still lost in the deepest recesses of his mind at the dangerous turn of events. Rostioff had become accustomed to his master’s slow, methodical manner over his seasons in tutelage under the great elf and he sat silently waiting.
Danthalas splashed an ounce into each glass and recorked the bottle. He raised his glass to his apprentice and each took a sip of the potent spirit. It was a bourbon whisky made from the wild rye seed of the Great Northern Plains and aged in Rowenwood casks by the elves to the east in the Kingdom of Rowendale. Rostioff loved the Elven Bourbon and couldn’t get enough of it, but the old elf was stingy in the doses he metered out. It was an offering of camaraderie, not meant to fetter the thoughts of the men who partook of it. The two sipped slowly
of the deep heady brew and Rostioff waited patiently for his master to speak.
“His progress will be slow and laborious. He won’t have the power we do as there is only him and his ghoul minions where as we have the entire congregation of the High Tower at our disposal. We may still have a chance if we move quickly and organize our numbers. We must send a party into the mountains to aid the young Silverleafs in their quest for the eggs. I had not anticipated Graxxen would have regained so much power so very quickly. He is dangerous already and has quite likely begun to poison the minds of the creatures of the land around him. He may even be raising an army. We cannot be certain of his path, but we can be quite certain of his destination. When he deems himself powerful enough, he will come here, for all of us.
“He means to destroy us. His pact with the darkness will then drive him to destroy the wyrld of men, elves, dwarves, gnomes, fae folk, and all that lives in the light. His mind is not his own and has not been for thousands of seasons. We cannot allow him to succeed in his service to the darkness.” Danthalas stroked his chin in contemplation with one eyebrow raised as he gazed through his young apprentice, deep in thought. He leaned back into his chair slowly and comfortably and raised his cup to down the final swallow.
“What word from the elves of Rowendale, Master? Have they heard your call for aid? Will they send armies north to the Mystpeaks?”
“No, the elves of Rowendale are not known for answering the call to aid men and I wouldn’t expect them to act with any haste. Most keep to themselves. But still, word of a rising evil in the North sent by an elf of station, such as myself, will surely raise the ire of King Cariuus and his council. If I can rally them, their armies will follow when needed. The minds of soldiers are weaker than the minds of magi.” He smiled broadly and poured another few sips into each cup. The hour was growing late, the sun sinking out over the Orcun Ocean and the Midgaard Isles that lay to the southwest.